


Short, unattached things.

by cornflakesareglutenfree



Category: Original Work
Genre: Mental Instability, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-02-06 11:55:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12816996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cornflakesareglutenfree/pseuds/cornflakesareglutenfree
Summary: What makes a human mind healthy? What is normal?My thoughts on that, I guess. In multiple tiny exerpts.





	1. loneliness

Loneliness is not madness. He knows what they think, can feel their thoughts crawling on his flesh like flies. The sticky residue of their opinions refusing to wash off even in the hottest, most blistering of showers. Escape used to be easier to find. Books, films, even the indistinct chatter of a coffee shop was once sufficient to drown out the words that were not his own. He once found what he thought was a permanent solution to the soul biting loneliness, but that dream died silently on the side of the road six years ago when a trick of fate sent one motorcycle and it’s rider sailing into an early grave. Now all he has is space, not enough and too much all at once. Some days he doesn’t feel at all. Other days he feels so much that he wonders if maybe he’s wrong after all. Perhaps loneliness, too far compacted, can twist you. Perhaps madness is just one too many lonely days away.  



	2. trespassing

I’d brush the hair out of your face if I thought you’d sleep through it. I long to run fingers through your locks, smell the traces of product on my fingers when I’m alone later. Some might say that it’s undignified, the way your jaw is slack, with the smallest crust of dried saliva on your lip. Personally, I find it adorable. The wind from the open window brushes your face, and your features tighten reflexively. I make quick moves to silently slip the window closed in the sash. I don’t want you disturbed. You need your sleep for the full day of meetings tomorrow. I’ll see you then, but you won’t be relaxed and sweet. You’ll be the consummate professional, dressed up tight and secure. Confidence and cold reserve will exude from your very pores. I know the truth, though. You’re so soft here, so vulnerable. I sigh sadly as I move to head out. I have long term plans for us, and it simply wouldn’t do for you to find out the surprise too soon. I force myself to be patient. One day soon you’ll know my name, and then you’ll be mine.


	3. anxiety

I feel like I can’t breathe. It’s an old story, at least in the literal sense. Childhood asthma and anxiety attacks left me intimately aware of the sensation. Oxygen is an enemy to my throat, and is on retreat at the most inopportune moments. Sometimes I go weeks without feeling the bite of its absence, but then there’s a day when the air I need so rudely escapes me. The hollow feeling in my chest, just below my throat, the reedy whine of a body begging, begging, begging to be fed.  
It’s not literal this time. The air itself isn’t betraying me. My chest pumps just fine, as though it’s unaware of how the purpose of it’s beating has gone forever. Why should my chest move, my veins pulse, my very being continue… without the future we planned? I find myself wishing for the traitorous oxygen to just make up it’s mind. Why can’t you just leave me alone? The wheeze begins, but only in my head. How dare my body continue to function without a purpose. I catch myself on the thought of denying the oxygen it’s purpose in my lungs. I have control of that at least. Pulled from my thoughts; a ringing phone. Oh well, maybe another day.


	4. sisters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i have family in town for thanksgiving. i have emotions.

“We’re a family” they say. Like it means something. It doesn’t. I know better. “We’re your sisters. We want you around.” Lies. “We can see you’re unhappy.” No, you assume I must be unhappy, because you feel like you have to avoid my eyes in the hallway.

What is family anyway? Those people whom you share DNA with, who you see three times a year. If you rated your family on the friendship scale from Acquaintance to Soulmate, would they rank above the mailman? Some of mine would not. Yes, I know your middle name and your birthday, and I know what your nick name was when you were a toddler. Do I know your favorite food or color? Absolutely not. And I know that you have no interest in mine.

I have accomplishments. I am a person who has friends and loved ones. They are not blood to me, and yet when I am with them I never am made to feel as though I am taking up space that does not belong to me. Why would I accept an acquaintance forged by blood when I could share my time and attention and fragile emotion with someone who knows not only my favorite things, but my second and third favorites without extending themselves.

Sisters. I have some. I have some acquaintances that are blood. And then I have my soulmate sisters, created with someone else’s DNA, and they hold my heart safe for me. I miss them.


	5. Death

They say that dealing with the death of a loved one is a solid life experience. You live, you grieve, you survive. I think they’re lying. Why should I aspire to survive at all? What in that is exceptional? The ability to not be dead? Rubbish.

Whether watching the slow, painful decay of illness or the elemental shock of losing someone to a catastrophic event. Why is surviving so glamourized? Working to give myself something to do, and to pay for the food to keep my flesh sack functioning; the makeup to hide the withering of my features, too long drenched in tears; drops for the sahara that results from too many tears shed.

Maybe I don’t want to wake up anymore, did you ever think of that? And yet, if I chose to end this miserable existence, what promise to I have that whatever came next would be better? Would it even be different? Would you be there? Would you know me? Would I know me?

If dealing with death is a life experience, then maybe I don’t want to experience life any longer.


	6. Chapter 6

Words; and stories; and writing is hard. Telling my brain to make the stories come out on my computer as I type, type, type. Thoughts, words, ideas. All come and go like waves, but not clean. Not ocean waves, but bitter, choked with dirt and dead things and debris. I have words and thoughts inside me, but they trap themselves, tight, tight, tight. I want to scream; I want to whisper; all I do is cry silent tears down the creases of my face and wonder if I am allergic to my environment or my emotions. I hear people having fun and enjoying life, enjoying one another and yet I am separate. I am not allowed inside the joy they create. I speak, but my words gain no acknowledgement. I am begging for completion. I beg for my words to come, for my feelings to calm, for my ideas to warrant the affection of others. I want to make them proud. They can’t hear me when I speak, and I cannot type my thoughts. My fingers are betrayers and my lips are a quivering traitor. I want to escape this box, but does the box even exist or am I just alone here in space?


	7. Chapter 7

Words words words.

Collections in our heads.

So few letters and so many arrangements.

Creating designs and plans and futures and yet...

Pain can come. Those same letters. Torturing souls. 

 

Thoughts become dialogue and dialogue becomes anothers thoughts. 

Your thoughts have been hijacked by the letters and words and designs of another.

Of the many.

 

Motivations craft the direction of the letters that form the words that influence the thoughts around.

Do they motivate for the good? 

What is good?

 

Letters and thoughts and collections and motivations and dialogue. 

The choice of which to trust in a fractured existence. 

 

Whatever your choice remains to be seen, heard, felt. In the collection of letters you make, inside and out.

There is a mighty strength in letters.

 

There is a mighty strength in you.


End file.
